


solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt

by sybilius



Series: Talking won't save you [2]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: (no alcohol involved in sex though), Alcohol, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Aromantic Relationships, Bad people fucking, Blood Kink, Blowjobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Cowboy Lube, Fist Fights, Gratuitous gun kink, Gun Kink, Latin phrases, M/M, Peak Angel Eyes Bullshit: the fic, Poor dealing with feelings, Porn, Rawing, Rough Sex, Some mild consent issues, Tearing, Under-negotiated Kink, Unusual narration, hatefucking, weird style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-07 00:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11612376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: Eram quod es, eris quod sum - I was what you are, you will be what I am. (grave inscription)*Angel Eyes expected death at the graveyard. Blondie decides otherwise.





	1. aeternum vale

**Author's Note:**

> Another Italian Westerns fic, but I have a little more to say about this one than the previous. 
> 
> So this wasn't the story I originally intended when I wrote Devil’s Pupil Gonna Teach You to Sight. I do actually quite like the canon ending of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, but I thought this tale up while riding a plane, and it wouldn't let go until I finished it. Picks up pretty much right at the trio scene at the end of the film and diverges from there. 
> 
> I have more feelings for this than I thought I would -- considering how much feelings are The Enemy in it, hah. Blondie and Angel Eyes have a very very interesting dynamic in it, and I did so love developing a character voice for Angel Eyes. He is by far the most interesting character in the Dollars Trilogy to me. Huge shout out to Bec (cudvac.tumblr) without whom this incredible, extra as hell imagining of the character would not exist. I love my trash son. What an iconic bastard.
> 
> So in short, this story is vaguely important to me, certainly as much as one would expect being the sole writer for the ship. If you can find time to read and comment, that would make me very happy. 
> 
> But by the same vein, remember you're getting into a very trash fic about a murderous aromantic bastard who has gratuitous sex and mumbles in Latin in his internal monologue. Uh so -- just know what you're getting in for ;) 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are heinously short for a sybil fic, but honestly? Angel’s internal monologue is a lot to parse. And some people read slower than I do so maybe this is easier to follow. 
> 
> Latin translation at the end. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: gun violence, rough sex, not exactly dubcon but certainly not great consent, blood play, self harm mention. 
> 
> It might be relevant to know that Blondie carries a Navy Colt gun and Angel Eyes carries a Remington 1858.

A graveyard, of all places. Convenient place for a dead man’s gold. And it's a convenient way to go out. The chink of spurs is audible as places are taken in the stone center. An open grave lies waiting in the thankless sun.

So this is what it comes to.

How many years has it been, ducking the specter of Death, flirting with his shroud? Blondie’s hatred is palpable, matching the heat of the beating sun. Seems fitting to be taken by one who was a shadow of what he could be. It all comes back around. Underestimating people is a dangerous game, if a thoroughly interesting one.

Yes. From the way Blondie’s eyes narrow. This has to be it.

Fingers twitch and crawl. A Mexican standoff is a choice death. There's a tension and intimacy to them. Almost like hope. Tuco is sweating, to Blondie’s stony squint in the glare.

It's peaceful, the waiting.

Blondie and Tuco lock eyes for a moment, feels like  _ the _ moment, one hand on the Remington 1858. And then Blondie does the unexpected. Empties his chambers into Tuco's chest, the cry echoing with the spatter of blood from his audibly shattered ribs.

“Y-you,” Tuco is as indignant in death as he was in life, toppling forward even as he struggles for his gun.  _ Aeternum vale.  _ He won't be missed.

Then, the aftermath, gun in hand.

No shots fire yet. Though each gun is trained at a heaving chest. His lips tighten. They must be dry as death to the taste by now.

The trigger should be easy to pull. He's not the first partner and certainly won't be the last at this rate.

But curiosity has its hold. So the gun is lowered, judgement served. He sleeves his Navy a moment after he's no longer under threat.

“Which is the grave?”

“There. Next to Arch Stanton. The unknown grave.”

Clever. So he told Tuco the nearby grave. A kick to the rock he left in the middle of the circle reveals it to be unmarked as well. Certainly clever.

The grave itself is unremarkable in every respect-- just another pair of planks lashed into an approximation of meaning.

“You dig,” Blondie tilts his head at the sand. So this is how it will go.

He wants to see if he  _ can _ . Well. That's telling.

Pride is only necessary if one loses something by sacrificing it. Not so here. So time to pick up the shovel.

The surprise that ghosts over his face is almost worth it. What did he expect? He had his chance to shoot.

But maybe he wants another reason. Or maybe he already has a reason to hold his trigger finger.

It's not so bad, shallow with recent use and dust. The metal hits the wood before long, the coffin split open to reveal burlap rather than rotten flesh.

He picks up the shovel, jabs one of the bags sharply. Gold spills out like blood onto the dirt. A smile, like the challenge of Eden's serpent. He glares back.

So is this what you came for?

The answer to that doesn't come so easily. But he stays by to load up the horses, for the ride into town, for two rooms, booked for a night at the inn above the saloon. No words are spoken.

He's waiting for the question.

And he's not going to get the satisfaction.

Night falls in the time it takes to find food and clean the road off. It doesn’t take much waiting after moonrise. He doesn't knock when he comes in, just shuts the door and stares.

Alright.

So this is what his bullet stayed for. He's not the first to stick around after what should have been a quick fuck, but god. The hope is that he isn't like the others. 

He doesn't ask, just takes a fistful of shirt linen and kisses raw just like on the trail. Kisses till blood paints his lips and he's panting with it.

Already that's harsher than expected. A shove to his chest, asking him to name the game without a question. So this game can be fun. His eyes flare with surprise, even wider when his cock is gripped through his pants, pinning him to the door. His eyes are easy to search, but what is there other than hatred?

Nothing familiar.

“What?” a word like a gunshot, torn through lip flesh with a sneer.

The only way to meet that is with a laugh.

“Didn't know you had  _ this _ in you, Blondie. In all honesty, thought you would have killed me, first.”

“You sonofabitch,” he spits before rasping teeth over neck - flesh, god yes. He's good. Clothing almost torn to the floor. Hands tearing at hair, raking over skin, hoping to leave marks no doubt. The taste of his skin is satisfying, the bite of his teeth doubly so. He's ravenous for something, that much is clear.

Unlike the first time, he knows how to use his mouth. It’s messy and has no finesse in it, but the roughness of it is a novelty. So he's not like the others, the ones he killed without knowing who he was supplanting. He chokes slightly on the tip, the sensation exquisite.

No. Not like them at all.

He shoves back by the time the tastes precum, exhaling like he's expecting a blow. What's this about, Blondie? The hell are you after?

“You gonna do it this time?” he shifts his body in the dim lamplight like he's offering it up. Now that ain't shit.

“What?”

“Come on.” He’s on his knees looking pissed as all hell, biting his lip with a wish for something. It’s not pleasure.

“You idiot.”

“What - -?” He has the gall to look offended, as if he weren't about as subtle as a spur to the neck.

“I'm not a weapon unless you want to be dead. Is that what you want, Blondie?”

“Damn you to  _ hell. _ ”

That wasn't what he wanted to hear, but it gets to the want in him. He gets up, forces muscle into place and drives his hand in hard without warning or preparation, stretching and tearing faster than anyone has done before. The surprise tears a scream out.

God, it feels good to be surprised.

The trickle of warm liquid down thighs is the sensation that comes next. It's blood, no doubt. And it's useful, when he pauses to shove the full length of his cock in. Goes in right with the shock of pain.

“Shit--” knocks the breath out too.

“Is this what  _ you _ wanted?” It's almost funny how angry he is. If it weren't so deadly with pleasure.

“Evidently.”

He growls and starts to move, driving hard into the wood of the floor.

“I don’t -- know -- what you were - - expecting, Blondie.”

“Shut the hell up. Just shut up,” his teeth are gritted, and it's evident that he's close. So time to turn the tables.

Without breaking rhythm, the positions are reversed, slamming him into the ground with weight suddenly on top of him.

He gasps, his ribs hitting the floor in a way that will surely leave bruises in the morning, but his anger gives way quickly when the pace is redoubled, opening up skin and ass wider to drive the sensations that much deeper.

There's enough of that exquisite tincture of pain and pleasure that the last thrust tears the sear of pleasure out. He follows moments later, not needing any further encouragement.

After all, he did do most of the work.

There's a lot of breathing in the aftermath.

“Get off me.”

No arguments there.

He shuffles upwards and collapses on the bed, exhaustion in his every breath. The bed isn't really that big. Telling him to fuck off would be standard, but he's not taking up that much space.

He's not the only one who needs rest.

So the other standard then, a pipe and his quirley to match. The smoke hangs hazy in the aftermath. There's blood dripping onto the sheets.

“You got a lot of damn nerve, you bastard,” he says as sleep is starting to hang its veil over the room.

“Which does this refer to?”

“Telling me you won’t fuck me.”

“Because you wanted me to hurt you?”

“You wanted  _ me _ to hurt  _ you _ ,” he rolls over for the accusation, demanding answers.

“A hypocrite is the least of the things I am, Blondie. But it's different when you want it for the pleasure of it.”

“That ain’t shit,” he spits, turning away. It’s almost a relief. But there’s still something unsaid.

“Could show you what pain is, death if you wanted it, but that's business. You'd have to pay me for it. Even then. I wouldn't do it.”

“Why not?”

“Might want to keep you around.”

He snorts, slipping underneath the thin quilt at last. So the darkness of sleep closes in, another thread closed. The path ahead is unclear, but there’s always blood to be spilt to keep things interesting.

As expected, the bed is empty by morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> _Aeternum vale_ \-- eternal goodbye
> 
> The reasons for Angel’s weird Latin bullshit will be made clear-ish in the next chapter (feels weird even calling them “chapters” ). 
> 
> Have you figured out what's weird about the narration yet? ;)


	2. astra inclinant, sed non obligant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: gratuitous gun kink, very ill-advised use of guns. 
> 
> Apologies for the wildly inconsistent chapter length - - this one is the longest. 
> 
> Latin translations to follow.

Finding him the next time takes a bit of doing. He hasn't settled a bit, that hundred thousand dollars no doubt rotting in a similar bank to the one that has gunshots ringing down its halls. It's not his first time around either.

But he's more careless than he should be in the shootout.

“Christ, is that Angel Eyes?” a gunman who is memorable only by his dirty mouth takes a bullet to the head.

“Didn't think you could choose worse company than Tuco.”

He doesn’t answer that, just takes a shot at one of the men while adjusting the quirley in his mouth. It's not a very good robbery. Not sure which side he started on, but he's not with them now.

“Don't shoot!” a skinny man with terror in his eyes throws down his gun. Blondie hesitates--- typical.

He glares when a bullet buries itself into the man's chest, an accusation in his eyes. And the old jealousy, too. He should have expected this.

Still, as expected, quick work is made of the remaining men. He's still a good shot, and with another gun behind him he's unstoppable.

“What'd they pay you for the job?”

“Weren't them paying me.”

Sure enough, crawling out of the woodwork of a nearby building is a motley gang of would-be robbers. Perhaps even former allies of the dead men. _Abyssus abyssum invocat._

So it's something to do. And there's a satisfaction in it.

“You got the money up front, right?”

“What, do you think I'm stupid?”

“No, just rash. Let's get out of here.”

He hesitates, glancing back at the bodies. So this wasn't how he expected this job to go, surely. But he's not protesting. Should be easy from here.

“Come on, do you want your name on a wanted poster?”

“No.” And there’s truth in that at least.

“Then let's go.”

He doesn't complain, just walks away from the scene with an air of distaste. It's not particularly far to the inn where he's staying, but not far enough to be all that safe from the law.

It's his funeral.

The landlady glares when he stalks past but doesn't comment. Nor does he comment when he unlocks his room, revealing another nameless space to spend a night.

“Huh. Two beds, tired of sharing?”

“It's what they had. Mind telling me what the hell you're doing here?”

Now that is an unexpected question. The simple answer is for a fuck, as he no doubt expects. But it feels less simple than that.

“Call it a debt.”

“You don't owe me shit.”

“A pleasure call, then.”

He squints.  More than usual, that is, “Since when do you take calls. Or go to them.”

“Since you and Tuco killed the regulars that came to call.”

He has the grace to look a little impressed at that. There were seven of them. Once. There probably were more. He frowns and looks away, which must be payback for the way the last tryst went.

“Give me your Navy. Do you remember what I told you the first time?” It's easy to tell that he does. But he doesn’t reach for it yet, inclining his head slightly as he sits down on the bed. He has the gall to light a quirley, pursing his lips around it consideringly.

“What if I've changed my mind?”

To his credit, he doesn't flinch at the weight on his knees, though his cock jumps in his trousers.  Smile like the serpent. Haven't had to use these skills in years.

“Have you?”

He licks his lips, letting out a gust of the smoke before stubbing it out on the countertop.

“Your Navy. Come on, Blondie.”

“Do it with your Remington,” he demands. It's transparent, playing at belligerence. But on the other hand.

He's not the first one to ask for that.

“Fine.”

But that is a first. The gun is clean and well-kept, loaded six bullets smooth. The thin barrel leaves a mark on his skin, tip to the edge of his sharp jaw. He's hard already, the thickness of it hot and obvious in the space between his legs. His earlobes taste like tobacco smoke.

“Hell that - - “ his thought ends with a gasp as the Remington is shoved under his chin.

“I know it’s good.”

What he might want is dominance, or perhaps the flavor of it with the illusion of control. Pushing him flat to the bed is the first step.  He takes that well enough, demanding with the roll of his hips.

The gun presses to his neck, shadowing the cords and tendons there. A tilt to the head, measuring his reaction, dragging the cold metal to knock open his collar. Is that what he's after?

“Don't hold back.”

“What?”

“You can quit the coy act. Let's just do what you came for, alright?”

Well. If he's not the first to pick up on an act, he's certainly the first to give enough of a damn to put a stop to it. Or perhaps - -

But he tugs back hard and shakes his head, “I didn't say I wanted you to stop just. No bullshit, alright?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, it is.”

That's interesting.

“Glad there's some part of you that doesn't take bullshit, Blondie,” It's an easy rhythm by now, tearing off that vest, shirt, stripping him to the skin. His glance lingers at lips, tongue for a moment before he tries to do the same. He gets a slap to the hand for his trouble.

“I dunno, I seem to be taking your bullshit pretty well.”

“You want me to suck your cock?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“You're shit at it. Let me show you how it's done.”

He licks his lips eagerly, but frowns when it's the Remington that gets a gust of breath to the tip, easier for him to watch at least. And all acts aside, he deserves to suffer in waiting a little longer.

“Your enthusiasm is good but your instincts -- need to focus more on the details,” the shaft is only part of it, and barely important. His pupils dilate with pleasure at a particular motion of the tongue at the tip.

“Remember that, do you.”

“You're such a--” his voice cuts out to a slight grunt when the Remington ghosts over his cock, “bastard.”

No arguments there. The Remington looks nice, the glistening metal lined up to his livid cock. Could linger on that for a while, taking time.

“Watch carefully - - takes more practice than what you’ve got to take it all in,” a gun is a good place to start, the barrel thin and the taste lingering. He gasps sharply when the gun goes all the way the throat. Can feel the way that goes straight to his groin.

“So something to do when you’re bored.”

“Right,” he glares while he reaches for shirt buttons, and that seems like the right thing to allow him. At the very least, more comfortable. Once he's finished, though-- there's the more important instructions.

“Alright. Gonna show you what I came for, now. Turn over.”

“Is it loaded?”

“What do you think?”

“Good.”

The oil can't be good for the barrel, but pain isn't in the cards for tonight. That's not what he's after. It's the shock, the strangeness of it when the metal slides home. The way his body tenses, not daring to move an inch.

“Stay just like that.”

“Yeah,” the sheer desperation of the syllable -- god but it’s tempting to _drive_ the Remington home. Ill-advised but tempting.

“I'm sure you know your life depends on it.”

“You gonna do it or what?” he can feel the trigger, feel the trigger-finger. That's the best part about it.

The Remington twists deeper, but it's a familiar grip this time. It’s easy to find the place that makes his stomach muscles tense and tremble at a brush.

“Careful.”

“Don’t let up.”

“You playing with death again, Blondie?” there’s a very gentle grind to the way the Remington teases at him. It's killing him a little not to move.

“It's not that, just - - god --”

That tears out a laugh, even as his moan borders on a scream. It's a good cacophony, easy to be envious of his position. He's close. Something unexpected then, a reach forward to his neck, just a press of the thumb to his carotid and he chokes and screams, trying desperately to keep still.

God it's a sight.

He recovers fast, coughing and reaching shaking hands for his Navy. Snake grips, which is a pretty detail. Without a word he reverses the positions, not that there's reason to resist.

“So let's see what you picked up.”

“Shut up,” he grunts, but there's less bite than the last time. Oh god and by now he knows, even with the slick tip of the Navy guiding his hand, knows just where to touch so that staying still is a gasp of perfect agony.

“You were saying,” he mutters.

So two can play at that game, but a smile won't give him the satisfaction. The scream that follows might. He doesn't let up and it's goddamn relentless, the texture of the engravings rough and fascinating. Breathing is turning desperate with the rhythm and when he reaches around to grip and rake nails down the length while the cold metal drives once more -- oh God.

Feels like being shot straight through the spine.

So that was worth the trip, even if it did mean a lot of his bullshit.

He’s already lit a quirley by the time sitting up feels like a good idea, and a smoke is certainly a good foil to that.

“Not bad, Blondie. Not bad at all,” the pipe is a godsend in the aftermath.

“You know that’s what Tuco called me, right?” his mouth twists, not with regret, but with distaste. And not at Tuco.

“You want me to call you something else, you tell me what that is.”

“Mm.” No suggestions there.

He's quite the self-loathing bastard. It's strange that there's no revulsion towards him. Something about the way he breathes it out with the smoke, like nothing ought to matter. _Pulvis et umbra sumus._

So perhaps that's why he's interesting. In any case, leaving the room and getting on the road doesn't seem attractive just yet. At least not as attractive as a wink of sleep, even if it must be in company.

He’s quiet, considering the quirley before turning up his gaze.

“How the hell did you get a name like Angel Eyes?”

Of all the questions to ask, he picks one that matters the least. But it's a good question.

“Isaac gave it to me. My first lover,” the pipe tastes sweeter than usual. Or perhaps it's just the lack of blood.

“Alright, that is way more sentimental than I had you pegged.”

“Don't give me too much credit. I ended up killing him later. Nothing personal, just a job. He knew too much of somebody’s business.”

“Well, shit.”

“It was useful. I took more hit jobs after that, and they pay well, if you're good at them,” to this day, there's still not a shred of remorse thinking about Isaac. More of a distant regret. He was a good lay, “Figured if I could kill him, I could kill anyone.”

There's a brief silence in which he sucks hard in the cigar, “You're a piece of work, you know that?”

“Thanks for noticing,” smoking with him is nicer than sharing company usually is, “Could say the same about you, but for very different reasons.”

“That wasn't a compliment. And what the hell do you mean by that?”

“You’re doing it right now. Acting like you hate what you are, while also wishing you could be better at it. Like me.”

“Like you, what the hell is that?”

“A murderer, thief, hypocrite, bastard. In short, anything I decide to be, and anything I'm good at.”

He stares a long time then, something between anger and pity in his eyes. _Tanta stultitia mortalium es,_ or so the so called God would have said. In any case, the pity is exactly what's holding him back.

“Angel Eyes my ass,” he mutters, which comes as a bit of a surprise, “they're no different from the rest of you.”

A sharp, bitter laugh, “And why would you want me any different, Blondie?”

He doesn't bother to deny the wanting. Doesn't say anything to that. But something about his question lingers on the tongue with the ash.

“ _Quattuor animalia singula eorum habebant alas senas et in circuitu et intus plena sunt oculis et requiem non habent die et nocte dicentia sanctus sanctus sanctus Dominus Deus omnipotens qui erat et qui est et qui venturus est.”_

“What the hell?”

“It's Latin. Speaks of angels. Angels with six wings, covered in eyes, repeating day and night. Who was, who is, who is to come.”

“Oh.”

“It's why Isaac called me Angel Eyes. I know a lot about angels,” it seems like a terrible understatement, even if it's little more than a passing curiosity. But it’s not as if it changes the name any.

After all, deed is far more powerful than knowledge.

“Huh. Like a good churchgoing Christian?” He smirks mockingly around the quirley, “Hardly think of you as the god-fearing type, Angel.”

Oh the things he doesn't know, hasn’t even thought of. It's easy, then to brush off his slip of the tongue, to _speak_ , describe with word and gesture that which has been only thought for years.

“God doesn't exist. But the idea of angels, those could be the idea of the divine force on earth. If God exists he is nothing but the leader of the angels, declaring himself king only by virtue of power. Rising above them only -- if God, angelic or otherwise, built us in his image, why should he not be as we?”

“The devil’s an angel, ain't he?”

“Yes - - Lucifer. He who was honest about where he comes from. As the good Lord was not.”

“Of course you’d be admiring the devil.”

“ _Astra inclinant, sed non obligant._ We choose our path, and Lucifier chose his. Just as I chose mine, and you could choose yours.”

In the resounding silence he frowns slightly, expression indiscernible. He’s closer now-- without having moved. Right.

Should have settled back onto the other half of the bed long before. The low-burning lamplight casts shadows in his cheeks, his gaze still intent.

“You really are a piece of work,” he says softly. He may actually mean it as a compliment. Strange that it simultaneously gives comfort and sets skin crawling. 

“And do you admit that you’re the same?”

“Not the same as you.” There should be more disgust in that statement-- and yet, “But sure, I'll give you that.”

“Good.” There's a slight pause in which he hesitates before stubbing out the tobacco.

“I'm going to sleep,” he grunts, and rolls over.

“Alright.”

Good night.

There's something like gratitude in the air.

It's unsettling. And it lingers with the taste of curiosity in the morning, slipping out into the dawn without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:
> 
>  _Abyssus abyssum invocat_ \-- Hell calls hell. Though sometimes colloquially used as “one bad thing leads to another”, the translation here is more so literal.
> 
>  _Pulvis et umbra sumus_ \-- We are dust and shadow.
> 
>  _Tanta stultitia mortalium es_ \-- Such is the foolishness of mortals. 
> 
> _Quattuor animalia singula eorum habebant alas senas et in circuitu et intus plena sunt oculis et requiem non habent die et nocte dicentia sanctus sanctus sanctus Dominus Deus omnipotens qui erat et qui est et qui venturus est._ \-- Revelations 5:8. Ambiguous whether it speaks of angels.
> 
>  _Astra inclinant, sed non obligant_ \-- The stars incline us, they do not bind us.
> 
> If you're gonna tell me that the Latin stuff is hugely dorky, my friend. Thats the point. In my headcanon he started off using a few of these to be vaguely threatening, then dropped the practice when it just earned him a lot of very confused murder victims, lol. He's still a dork about it though.


	3. ab imo pectore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: alcohol use/ drunk character. No nsfw. 
> 
> Latin translations to follow.

He appears several times between the next few murders, the habit slowly starting to creep up. None of those rooms or fireside fucks reveal a damn thing. So business as usual. That can only be a good thing. 

It's the aftermath of the Wallingford hit that things go strange. Walking away from the standoff with a gun graze is bad, but better than the alternative. There’s a horse tied on the edge of the city. Good. 

It's easy to slip the rope and whisper sweet nothings to it, ride off into the stolen sunset. Getting out of town for a while buys time. In the circling hoofbeats and the dull ache of a grazed leg, there's plenty of options to weigh.  _ Omnia mors aequat. _

Chaos has swallowed up the brothel, and the licks of fire soon after. No survivors, the paper will write. A good time for a clean slate. Being dead is useful. 

In the choke of the smoke, it seemed for a moment like someone was calling. Blondie. 

It's been a long time since ghosts wandered into a shootout. There must have been more smoke than it looked like. 

No use dwelling on it. Not when it's time to become a ghost. 

The shadow of the moon leads to another town, another place. A change of appearance would be wise, in order to remain dead, but the wound is starting to bleed again. Best to find the inn. 

A room is easy enough to get, the few above the saloon are free. It's a bad town. Attracting few stares is easy enough, maybe some glances at the wound, nothing more. A quick survey reveals a surprising, and yet unsurprising patron. 

A familiar shock of golden hair, face down at the bar. Not a ghost. Well, well. 

A whiskey seems in order, and the seat next to Blondie is free. 

“Malt. Something strong. Perhaps what he's having.”

The barmaid nods. Blondie raises his head like it's weighted with rocks. His eyes, bleary as they are, widen. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he's slurring slightly, which is...out of character. A vice grip, too tight and too much pressure for the veins on a wrist. Feels good.

“Thought you were dead,” he mumbles. 

“Thought you were a ghost,” the whiskey arrives, goes down fast. There's other business tonight, and death has gotten more complicated, now. 

“Upstairs?”

“Shit.” It's close enough to an affirmative from him. And he can walk, or at least stagger with an arm thrown over a shoulder. He's warm. This isn't good for a bad leg but leaving him doesn't seem like an option. That's new. 

It's easy enough to shrug his limp body on to the bed in the small room, despite the heavy muscle. The pain has been raised to a throb, but at least there’s a sink and a meager bar of soap in the room. Stripping and binding is in order.  

It doesn’t look that bad. 

Taking the weight off it once the towel is soaked and ready is still a slight relief. He lies there motionless for a moment, filmy blue eyes taking in the ooze of the blood, the knotted pale pink strips of flesh. He reaches for the towel, struggling to sit up. 

“Don't. You'll cock it all up.” 

He drops his hand, back slumping, almost toppling over. He shakes his head helplessly. 

“What the hell. I don’t. I don't even like you.”

“I like you,” surprisingly true. Easier to say when he's bleary-eyed and won't remember a damn thing. 

“Yeah. I know.”

“Lie down.”

“Okay.”

Silence, save for the stroke of the towel and drop of the water. And his slow breathing. There’s a line being crossed here. Leaving now should be natural, inevitable. 

It's not going to happen. 

Even with the bullet graze safely bound, the limp manageable enough to get to another town, it's quiet and warm, devoid of any itch to cut and run. That's also new. He rolls closer. 

“Drink this,” the canteen still has some water rolling around in it from the ride in. He sits up, managing not to slosh it down his front.  _ Ab imo pectore,  _ he looks like hell _. _

Don't use that phrase often. He's staring now. Staring back. 

“You gonna keep me around?”

“You still thinking that?” 

“Stay here,” he sways and lies back down on the bed. 

“Wasn't planning to go yet. Don't get too close.”

“Don't want to but. Yeah. Stay here.”

Lying down feels good, for the leg at least. Can count on him being out for at least past the morning. So there's time for sleep. He rolls on his side, close enough that the warmth of his breath is palpable. 

“Angel, you - -” 

“Just sleep,” stupid idiot. But he listens. 

He’ll wake up in the morning wondering if this was a visit from a ghost. Pipe tobacco, then, left on the tabletop. Easy to replace, and he’ll recognize the brand, know that it was more than just a whiskey - soaked nightmare. 

Just a courtesy, nothing more. 

It's time to vanish. Keeping count, this is the seventh time since the graveyard. So it's auspicious at least. 

But still. Sleep beforehand, to heal the leg. Then take to the road. 

Waking arrives at a reasonable dawning hour, but this time, something is different. Heavy and warm weight draped over ribcage, breath at the neck. Hell. 

He's heavily asleep at least, which explains why he has no qualms about strangling the nearest warm body like an oversized teddy bear. 

By far the worst of this is that's it's comfortable.

Prising his fingers apart without waking him takes work, but at least he has enough drink in him that it's not difficult. 

There's the barest hint of regret in throwing off his arm. 

No matter. It's been too long in the waiting as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:
> 
>  _Omnia mors aequat._ \-- Death makes all things equal. 
> 
> _Ab imo pectore_ \-- From the bottom of my chest, colloquially, from the bottom of my heart. You can decide which one Angel means here. 
> 
> Lookit these fuckers catching feelings.


	4. abyssus abyssum invocat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: extremely poor dealing with feelings, beating each other up (consensual), mild feelings. 
> 
> Latin translations to follow.

 

It takes over a month on the road. 

It's not the first time running, but the first time where a presence lingers at every camp on the edge of town, looking over the shoulder, shadows in the tracks behind. 

It's hard to tell how close he keeps, but at the very least a mile of desert stretches its vast expanse with no one on the horizon. It doesn't get better. If anything, the itch gets worse. 

At every fire there's still a trail, a bit of pipe ash let fall at the edges of the camp. 

_ Sometimes I wanna be found _ , is that what he said? 

Stupid idiot. 

But there doesn't seem to be an end without being found, does there?

_ Cursem perficio.  _ Hell. 

So that brings it to a month, waiting out the last camp in a cave on the desert edge. It's a large, cavernous space, riddled with holes in the ceiling that make a fire a safe option. The flames cast ghastly shadows against the stone. There’s still a handful of pemmican to chew on, but there's no getting around needing to return to the nearby town soon. 

But it shouldn't be long. 

The hoofbeats come by high moonrise. Hesitant, wondering. Surely he can see the smoke. The urge to run comes up sharp, but that's easy enough to swallow. 

Harder yet when the hoofbeats turn to footsteps. So time to greet him, standing by the firelight. He stops suddenly when the camp comes into view.

“You're here,” his face is a tired mask of shock and relief. Not much to say to that. 

“So I am. Did you want something?”

“You goddamn - -” he stops himself there, swallowing the words. So there's something eating him. He tries again, “Haven't seen you since I thought you were dead.”

“You saw me, then,” saw enough, in any case.

“I know,” he pauses, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He isn't even smoking, which is unusual.

“Look I don't remember much from that night but - - I said some things I didn't mean, alright? I don't remember if I said worse.”

“I don't recall. You didn't say much. Which are you thinking of?” 

He glares, as if the answer should be obvious. 

“That I don't like you. I didn't mean that.” He spits the words out like broken glass.

“I know that.”

“What?”

“I know.”

“So what the hell are you here for?” he suddenly growls, voice echoing against the stone. Laughter joins the echoes. Oh truly. How maudlin, how utterly melodramatic and hilarious. 

“You thought I was angry? Oh Blondie. You give yourself far too much credit.”

Even he must know there's a lie in that laugh. But it's not anger. That's his game.

The resounding crack of his fist is satisfying, pain exploding across the jaw, yes that will leave a mark. One that will fade, unlike others he's left. He breathes hard, looking almost like he regrets the punch. 

He shouldn't. 

“If you've come here to fight, then do it. Heaven knows it's been long enough that might be interesting.”

“ _ You _ idiot.”

“What, were you waiting to be able to say that back?” it’s a weak jab at best. He stares, hands balled into fists. 

“I don't know what in God's name you’re after,Angel. Or why you let me chase you halfway across the goddamn desert, what, so you could tell me it ain't shit in a cave in the middle of this hell?”

He dodges the retaliating punch, shaking his head, “No, you don't get to. I said what I had to, now you.”

“I don't have to do shit, Blondie.”

“Stop acting like a kid, what the hell are you so afraid of?”

And he can name it as fear. Hell. He really knows. 

But he's waiting for the word. 

“I broke the code.”

“The hell does that mean?”

God it would be so much easier if he'd just throw another punch and get out. 

“Means I wanted you to find me.”

His face twists, “God above. You think I didn't know that too?”

“It's not up to you.”

“God above.”

Then he takes a swing, at  _ last _ , fist connecting with jawbone once more. The crackle in it is beautiful and awful. He takes it back, grunting slightly when knuckles connect with his cheekbones, barely staggering his stance. 

Did he expect this? Did he want this?

Then matching, blow for blow, breath for breath, heavy boots and fists to shins and forearms and ribs. There’s no reason not to fight dirty and the bruises feel so much easier than the cut of the words just spoken. 

It all feels easier, with the taste of blood edging at the senses, really, does anything else exist? 

Neither is going to yield, not with lips or touch or fuck, how to know when this will stop?

_Ab imo pectore--_ no, this is _abyssus abyssum_ and truly the _consummatum est_ that summoned the angels down to hell, brutal and bloody and senseless, none of this makes _sense_ , knocked flat to the cold sand--

“Hold on!” 

The words echo in the cavern - - still expecting the blow. 

It doesn't come. 

He holds. And he stares at me. 

Oh god, he  _ sees  _ me. 

“Alright,” I hear myself say. It's quiet enough that there's no echo.  He lowers his fist slowly, breathing hard. 

“You wanted that.” 

Did I expect this? Did I want this? 

“Yes. Alright.” 

“No. You needed that.” He exhales a long time, the blood running down his forehead as he stares, “Don’t think that I didn't, too.” 

His gaze is searing. I don't let him help me up - - but he doesn't let up either. 

I get the sense we know how this will go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations: (some repeated in case you've forgotten)
> 
>  _Cursem perficio_ \-- My journey is over. 
> 
> _Ab imo pectore_ \-- From the bottom of my chest/ heart. 
> 
> _Abyssus abyssum (invocat)_ \-- Hell calls hell.
> 
>  _Consummatum est_ \-- It is completed. The last words of Christ, according to John 19:30.
> 
> Was the shift jarring? Dear God I hope so ;)


	5. facilis descensus averno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: explicit sex. No other warnings, and easily on the nicer end of the sex they've had. 
> 
> Latin translations to follow. You know this by now, surely.

 

When I wake it's with that same sharp awareness of everything that exists that I felt when I hit the ground. Or perhaps everything that I am. 

We came into the town looking like hell itself, signed on a single room without a word and collapsed on the bed in much the same manner. There’s still blood from his head sticky against my neck. In sleep he's turned over again to throw an arm over my chest. 

It hurts to breathe, but the weight of it is pleasant. _Facilis descensus_ _averno_. Not that this is hell. 

Or that it was easy, for that matter. 

Light from behind the lace curtains is starting to spill into the room. His breathing is gentle, and even through the fabric of his jeans I can feel the thickness of his erection behind me. 

This part though. That's always been easy.

It’s tight, but I manage to shift myself around, wincing against the bruises purpling along my flesh. He’s awake.

“Fuck me.” 

He closes his eyes and nods, drags himself slowly upright. Our fingers work sore and slow, to strip bare, no need to shove and bite this time. The pain is fresh and sings out over the landscape of flesh. His skin tastes like the dirt and sweat of a month on the desert trail. 

“Shit - -” his voice wavers between a moan and a whimper when I take him in my mouth, one hand feeling the way the bruises on his chest make him wince and shiver. I take my time tasting his gasps, tearing them out one by one. 

Once his cock practically weeping, he pushes at my shoulders, and even that is painful. But it's gentle. 

“Turn over.” 

“Alright.”

I can feel the ache in his fingers sure as the ache of pleasure building in my chest. He's quick about it at least, letting one slick finger slide into the next until I feel the bone of his wrist stretching against me.

“God above.”

I have to laugh, gasping even as his fist builds up a slight rhythm. 

“Blondie.”

“I know, I know.”

He withdraws his hand, lining himself up and  _ god  _ that's the one part that doesn't hurt. His thrusts are shallow and slow, each tearing out a new pain I didn't realize he had marked me with. 

He comes screaming for angels, and god if that isn't the most poetic bullshit for us both. I collapse a moment later, nothing but flesh and bone, after all that I've done. Nothing but. 

Some moments later, he sits up in the mess of the sheets, regarding me carefully. Feels strange, to be fucked and seen and known all at once. I thought I would hate it a lot more. 

I light my pipe slowly, the bruises on my knuckles making that difficult. He has the gall to nestle his quirley in the flame when it's lit, mixing his cheap tobacco in. I blow smoke in his face, but don't comment. 

“So. What now?” he says once settled into the bed. 

“Gonna keep you around,” So that's a start. 

He shakes his head, almost smiling out of the corner of his mouth, “Alright, yeah. But where we gonna go?”

“What about North?”

“North where?”

“Always thought raising hell in the mountains could be fun. And I've heard there's gold.”

“Oh. That's a hell of a journey.”

“We’ve got time, haven't we?”

“Yeah. I guess we do.” 

“ _ Solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt. _ ” Didn’t expect to be able to use that one for myself. But then again. Blondie does smile a little bit at that. 

“Still a piece of work.”

“Old habits.”

“What does that one mean?”

I look him in the eye, almost smile. You could call it a smile. 

“They made a desert. And they called it peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations :
> 
>  _Facilis descensus averno_ \-- the descent to hell is easy. Virgil.
> 
>  
> 
> And I don't have to tell you what the title means :)

**Author's Note:**

> These bastards don't deserve this but I still love them.
> 
>  
> 
> Most of the Latin bullshit comes from here: http://www.inrebus.com/sadquotes.php. Thanks Internet!
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways, thanks for taking this journey with me, and let me know what it was like in the comments <3


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